"You don't notice that someone is gone/Who was just standing there/Making a witty remark or looking along/ The map edge to find out some location." -from Kenneth Koch's To Life, Breath, and Experience

On the eve of October, I am coming to terms with the possibility that, like her brothers, our daughter will be born on a secular American holiday. Manny, July 4. Benicio, Thanksgiving, and potentially now, THIS baby on Columbus Day. How is this possible for someone as unpatriotic as I am?
Led by my history major friend, Alice, I have only spent one remarkable Columbus day. Disgusted by Columbus' barbaric and imperialistic exploits, we celebrated the garrish blood-simulated defacement of the Columbus monument at Phipps Conservatory just off-campus. If you want to call sharing a pint of Cherry Garcia on the steps of the statue a bold demonstration, then Alice and I were truly inspirational that day. Geoff keeps reminding me that it is now actually called "Indigenous People's Day, " of course this is more palatable. But I don't know who actually calls it that and as the holiday approaches I am just cringing to wave the "Love It or Leave It Flag" and rejoice in the mass-displacement of any people group.

I think it was Wallace Stevens who wrote about "bearing the beams of love." My parents gave us a wonderful and much-needed gift-- a minivan. We have been mythologizing it for Manny and Benici: Big Dad and MyMom knew that our family was getting too big for a regular car so Big Dad went to an auction. (An auction is not like a store, if you want something you have to stand up and say, "Yes, I want that one.") So Big Dad went and when our blue minivan came up, he stood up and said, "Yes, Manny and Benici need that one. I'll buy it for them." Then they told him to wait in a line for four hours until he could get the title. His legs were tired and he was thirsty but he really wanted us to have it. Then he brought it back to his house for us to get." I want them to know that God always provides for us and he is so lavish and so specific with his blessings. Photos: My dad circa 1971, with my oldest three bros. Geoff and Dad this summer after a triumphant run at the family balloon toss.

"With every breath try to create a little more space for your baby." -Meredith, my prenatal yoga teacher. I don't know if breath is going to be quite enough to make any difference at this point. I call these last few weeks "The Watched Pot Period" where peoples comments get more ludicrous and I call on my handy-dandy trick of pretending not to understand English. We were at the arb today and this series of old women kept re-iterating that "(I) really had my hands full." In jest, I told my sister that the next person to say something like that was going to get a kick in the throat. Then I realized that there's no way I could be giving any kicks to throat and that I'd have to delegate that to someone else. During the WPP, it is essential not to lose one's head game. To realize that historically, I have never gone early, my previous babies were late. I need to be very present-focused, note any contractions or pressures but do not let them distract or debilitate me until they are super-doozies that demand my attention. I am in marathon mode, a patient and persevering athlete, taking each stride singularly. Two fave comments from moms at nursery school: "Don't take this the wrong way; I think it's a girl because of the way that your bottom is spreading." (That was last spring when I was super-wishing for a daughter.) "I think you're going to go soon, I can see the animal in your eyes." So if the animal is, in fact, in my eye right now, he must be dormant or just sitting back with its feet up because ain't nothin doin with my cervix.

Full term as of Sunday. When my mind is in neutral, I think about opening up and gravity helping me get some of the work out of the way. I bounce between being super-excited to meet my daughter and feeling sapped of energy. This week has been about Manny and Benici's start of school and also preparing the home for the birth. Next week is about stocking the fridge and finishing thank you's. The following week is about sewing projects and Halloween costumes. Maybe it is the cross of the housewife, to bear these plans, to carry them out WITHOUT allowing them to control me. These things are never easy.